The Sky in His Mouth

The kitchen light hummed, a low, persistent rasp against the silence of the pre-dawn house. Arthur stood by the counter, hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea. He hadn't meant for it to get cold, but his mind had drifted, tethered to the window where the sky was just beginning to bruise purple-black, hinting at the pale, indifferent blue to come. He stared into the swirling amber liquid, steam long gone, and then, his gaze snagged on the mug itself. Eleanor's mug. Chipped at the rim, faded floral pattern almost entirely worn away save for a stubborn patch of periwinkle near the handle.

And there it was. The taste. Always the same. It wasn't the tea, no. It was the blue. Like sucking on a forgotten coin, polished by rain, then left in a dusty drawer. A cold metal tang, yes, but beneath it, something mineral, like crushed slate, and a ghost of something floral, long dead. It coated the back of his tongue, a heavy, quiet presence, settling in his throat like an unswallowed pill. The taste of absence. The taste of Eleanor.

He remembered her hands, calloused from years in the garden, reaching for this very mug, her knuckles swollen with age. He remembered her laugh, a low rumble that always made his chest feel warm, even on the coldest mornings. The blue taste intensified, a bitter ache spreading. It wasn’t a hallucination, not really. More like a phantom limb, a sensory memory so deeply etched into him it became physical. A punishment, maybe. A constant reminder of what had been and what wasn't anymore.

Arthur took a slow, deliberate sip of the cold tea. Black tea, plain. He hoped the bitterness, the astringency, might cut through the blue. It never did. The blue just absorbed it, made the tea taste colder, flatter. He pushed the mug away, the ceramic clinking against the Formica. The sound, sharp and hollow, seemed to amplify the silence. His house, once filled with Eleanor’s quiet movements, her humming, now just a box of echoes.

He closed his eyes. The blue deepened behind his lids, a vast, swirling ocean of it. He saw her, clear as day, kneeling in the dirt, her favorite old blue gardening smock speckled with mud. The sun caught the silver strands in her hair, made them glow. She’d turned, caught him watching, and smiled, that wide, crinkly smile. “Morning, Arthur,” she’d said. Simple words. But they carried a world. He hadn’t known, then, that those mornings would run out. He hadn’t known the color of her smock would become the color of forever gone.

A tremor ran through his hands, an old man's shake, not from cold, but from something deeper, something rooted in his bones. He opened his eyes, the kitchen stark and unforgiving in the dim light. The blue mug, chipped and ordinary, sat accusingly on the counter. He wanted to smash it, just once, to shatter the memory, the taste, to silence the hum of what ifs that started whenever the blue arrived.

He walked to the window, pressed his forehead against the cool glass. The sky was a pale, washed-out denim now, thin light beginning to seep over the rooftops. A new day, they called it. Just another expanse of blue. The taste in his mouth felt like the dawn sky looked: vast, empty, beautiful in its indifference. He could feel it in his teeth, a gritty film, and a dryness in his throat, like he hadn't swallowed in days. It wasn't just a taste; it was a weight, pressing down on his chest, making each breath feel like an effort.

He thought about making coffee, something strong, dark, to blast away the blue. But what was the point? The blue was part of him now. It was in his blood, in his bones, in the hollow space where she used to be. It was the color of grief, the taste of it. And it wasn’t going anywhere.

Arthur reached out, his fingers brushing the cold glass. The outside world was waking up, oblivious. He just stood there, watching the indifferent blue sky lighten, a familiar ache blooming behind his ribs, the taste of it a constant companion on his tongue. He whispered her name, barely a breath. “Eleanor.”

The blue deepened, settled.

He just stood there. The sky turning a deeper, truer blue.